


holding out (for a hero)

by braigwen_s



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: Feet of Clay, Disordered Eating, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, No Apologies Given For Title, disordered sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braigwen_s/pseuds/braigwen_s
Summary: Lord Vetinari does not know what is the matter with him, not yet.  Not in the early morning; not as the clock approaches eleven (and he will not for several days).  What he does know is this: there is something very wrong, and he needs Vimes to be on time.
Relationships: Havelock Vetinari & Samuel Vimes, Havelock Vetinari/Samuel Vimes, Rufus Drumknott & Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38





	holding out (for a hero)

**Author's Note:**

> @Dats_der_bunny posted, on tumblr:  
> "Feet of Clay thought: Just imagine Vetinari’s really really ill with the arsenic poisoning, he’s been waving off the servants’ concerns and putting on a front all morning, and then his body finally gives in before his meeting with Vimes.  
> So he’s lying on the floor, fading in and out of consciousness, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, Drumknott isn’t in the room, he’s scared, and the only hope he has to cling to is the thought that it’s nearly eleven o’clock and Vimes will be here soon."  
> Hence; this.

Lord Vetinari went to bed at the usual time, which was to say, at 2.a.m., ready to rise when the sun rose at 5-30. He was sore and exhausted, but that was usual as well. Words were blurring in front of his eyes; it was easier to drift to sleep than he had expected, for which he was grateful. He only just remembered to extinguish the candle by his bedside. He must be working towards a collapse, so the fact he could sleep was especially welcome. He would feel better at 5-30, after he had slept.

When he awoke at 5-30, he did not feel better. He had indeed slept, and for a few moments he lay and wondered if the steady rest had disagreed with him somehow. Then he dismissed this as fanciful. He tried to take stock of himself:

  * head was aching

  * limbs were aching

  * he felt thirsty

  * he felt nauseous

  * he felt physically weak.




After half of a beat, he added

  * cognition was somewhat impaired,




because it should not have taken him that long to come up with such a simple tally. Then he got out of bed, because there were certain routines that he followed, and that he would never dream of disrupting. His legs gave way, and his head spun, and he caught himself upon the bedside table. He leaned on it for a few moments, willing his dizziness to subside. It did not subside as he ordered. He thought for another moment, then found his cane and leaned on it, shifting his weight back from the bedside table. With the support of the narrow rod of ebony, he could stand up. Silver linings to stormclouds, and all of that, he supposed. Curse all of the gods he needed one, but at least it was in use for more than merely one reason.

He washed and dressed. As he fastened the clasps of his robes, his hands trembled. The mirror showed he was more pale than usual. He had to search for a subtly different colour with which to blend the concealer he dabbed below his eyes to obscure their violet rings. It was not as if he deliberately under-slept; it was that his mind would not allow him to sleep more. It was a curse, like his under-eating; so few textures could fit palatably within his mouth, so his diet was that of an ascetic. Not that they were not both excuses for indulging his conscience. He vomited, which he had not expected, though that was somewhat his own fault for thinking about eating food; his stomach roiled at the thoughts, and bile bubbled up between his lips. He coughed the [mass|mess] into the basin, then washed it out. Quite aside from his desire for neatness, it would not do to alarm any of the Palace servants; it did not need to be known through the city he was unwell. Weakness was vulnerability, and vulnerability was, in this job, a swift yet agonising death.

(Although perhaps that was to be preferred to a slow and agonising one, the City was not ready. He was in no position to die; Ankh-Morpork could not handle it.)

He was running a fever, from how blessedly cool the stone of the walls felt. He could not face eating breakfast. He waved it away, along with his servants’ concerns. He was quite alright, he told them, without a good explanation at the end of the sentence, because he could not think of one. He could not think. He did drink two glasses of water; then, he vomited up more bile.

He made it to the antechamber of the Oblong Office, later than usual; too late. Drumknott was not there. That was right, he had deployed Drumknott over to the other side of the river. He was not to arrive back until noon; he was busy. He made it to the Oblong Office.

It was 7-23.

He pulled the chair out, and sat on it. His chest and throat were choked, and his airways felt constricted, but it must have been the nausea. (He told himself it was only the nausea.) The room was blurred with motion, though he was certain it was not moving. He was also quite certain that he was not moving, either.

“Drumknott,” he started to say, but Drumknott was on the other side of the river, and would not arrive back until noon. Somehow, despite it all, he was still able to work out what time it was. It was still 7-23. Drumknott would be another four hours and thirty-seven minutes. He was not certain that he would be lucid in four hours. He was not at all certain that he would not be unconscious. He was not certain of anything. He did not know what was wrong, why he was ill. He had not eaten, he could not have ingested a poison.

He read three pieces of paper, and to signed a small stack of documents. The room was blurred with motion, and with something…

He read another stack of paper, and signed a scroll. It was 7-52. He had a meeting with three minor Guild leaders in eight minutes, at 8a.m. He forced himself to sit upright; smoothed out his face. Wiped away perspiration with the cloth he normally would use to clean excess ink from his quill. He hid his fourth empty glass of water out of view, and found the correct reference documents for the meeting.

They came three minutes late, arguing with each other. He looked at them, and they stopped talking abruptly. He spoke by rote while they elaborated on their complaints to him. They spoke by rote while he elaborated on his expectations of them. Somebody asked if he were well. He sent them all out of the room.

It was 8-54a.m. Drumknott would not be back for three hours and six minutes. He realised he was frightened. He did not enjoy the sensation.

It was 8-56a.m. – he had lost two minutes, somehow. Get back to work.

9-33a.m. The sound of a loud collision. He was lying on the floor of the Oblong Office, near his desk. Every part of him ached. Was it his leg? he thought, far, far too belatedly. Had his leg become infected, the great, scarcely-healed wound from the Gonne-shot starting to rot? Sepsis would explain his general state, but when he grasped at his thigh, it felt no warmer than his hand. In fact, neither of them felt warm at all; he was shivering from cold that he knew, logically, was not extant. He realised again that he was lying on the floor, then realised the reason that he was; he had fallen out of the chair.

_Vimes_ , his thoughts flickered, as he woke again, heart racing. He could hear himself gasping for breath; it was rasping; shallow; panicked. He could feel the panic, too. He didn’t know what was going on, and nothing could be fixed if the problem wasn’t known. Vimes. Why was he thinking about Vimes?

It was 10-41. At 11a.m., he had a meeting with Vimes. That was the reason he was thinking about Vimes. At 11a.m., Vimes would be there for a meeting with him. Vimes was coming. Just nineteen minutes. Vimes was coming.

He faded out, then in again. Vimes was coming. Vimes would do something.

Out; in; out; in. was it his consciousness, or his breathing? He could not tell if were breathing, nor if he were conscious. Dimly, this marked itself as absurd, but he could not quite work out why. All of his thoughts were absurd. He was lying on the floor wracked with fever, all of him tremoring, fighting to remain awake, to breathe. He had only felt a little ill last night. The only thing that made sense was this: that Vimes would be coming.

No, two things made sense.

1\. Vimes was coming,

and

2\. Vimes would make it alright.

His hand stretched out towards the door. Once again, consciousness left.


End file.
